She told herself she’d worn this day away for foraging, for Rose, for their stores, for Drakru. It was true, and more, as it was her second forage, and she’d barely let herself sleep from the return on the coast. That was what she’d came here for. 

But if she were to be forward...she missed the mountains. O, the cliffs that her Drakru pined for had since become enfavored by her. And still... her spirit longed for the earthen spires, too paramount for the sea to lash and snag upon. Missed their cradle, longed to linger at their precipice, on the very point that wrenched at clouds, bolstered against tempests, and hauled borealis from the heart of the sun and skies.

It was this, with webs of ascertaining the Cache’s location, that had her announce her departure so very early this morn; had her drifting this way with all of a herbalists’ purpose, and that of her own heart. Her heart, that had become so profound and ensnared by innumerable kru-by-the-sea... had started to stutter. From impatience, from feeling too at ease. Smothered, as much as she adored them and him.

Before she would allow all of Drageda to hold fast her heart, her being, her very self and soul... she needed this. Needed to think, to breathe, to remember herself; remember Vonnaruil, and what the coastal-one had said.

This grove seemed without flaw to preform such personal tidings. So she settled down, reclined among frost-limned ferns, her spirit bending away from her and out, out. If she closed her bright eyes, a vision of Rhaesuial bloomed forth from the hidden, aching recesses of her memories.

Tranquility. Too much of it. So long had she gone without it; her heart beat deep and slow within her breast, and she couldn’t help the soft, wisping sob that left her muted lungs. Didn’t try to stop the tears as they mussed their way from heavy-to-cheek lashes, only to weave and join at a narrow chin.

A hushed, throaty gasp rose from her before her head flickered up; left her overwhelmed lungs with a stumble. For a moment, she stared blearily, unseeing anything other than a gloaming figure. A few trembling blinks, and the one before her sharpened into a dusky, pantheric mold; hackles ruffled and undoubtedly from Drageda’s once-claim.

Her encounter with Caphias since had not changed her particular perception of the Sound wolves. Like with the night-laureled wight, she regarded the Rusalkan male before her unassumingly, oddly refined for her tearful state. There was nothing more that Aure would wont for than to help others—everyone except herself. By a habit that’d become nearly instinctual, her eyes fluttered over the boy’s frame, in search of things raw and red.

So, because of this factor, she bit her lip in salt and sorrow before atoning, ”I... am sorry.” The meaning, unless given explanation, was entirely ambiguous. But should he take a moment to listen to the strain tugging at her foreign chords, or notice the way she was looking at him—so repentant and ignorant of war—the harpy’s faun might be able to piece it together himself.

In return, she was given a withering stare from the younger, and even then her gaze did not leave his own. A slight crease molded itself at her brow, not so much at taking offense at the wrath of his phrasing, but more in the way of wondering. Wondering how to... to come some on mutual understanding, one that ascended his hate or her hardship.

Would that she could, she would tell him of her eccentric arrival upon Drageda; tell him how her arrival had been in the midst of a war; tell him how she had nigh to none seasoning in fending and fighting. But she knew that wouldn’t work here—she never liked to speak of herself too much, anyways. ”From what I have heard, ze Sound was meant to be claimed by Drageda,” she acquiesced, leveling her stricken gaze to the depths of the one before her.

Her voice remained hushed, for both of their sakes, as she continued, ”But your nōrē should have ze freedom to settle where they long to. I...” she faltered, drifting in thought for a moment, and looked to him then, brow deepening with uncomprehension, ”I don’t understand why some parley could not have been stricken. A treaty of some sort.”

And then her eyes sharpened, but not with the hate she beheld in his. ”Forgive me if my plight for understanding this damned war has aroused some loathing within you.” In that moment, she became passionate, strained—almost embittered with herself, rather than him because she couldn’t understand. ”That was ze least of my intentions, I assure you,” but her breath came flustered, and her expression sharpened further. ”Your Rusalka and my Drakru hold another in ze utmost  animosity, do you not? I have no knowledge of how tidings such as these are conducted along ze sea, but in my eyes, we are all blameless.”

And her tearful eyes, indeed, bored into the corne’s own, suddenly flaring so bright they simmered cold. Within them wasn’t fury, or the animosity she’d spoken of. It was confoundment—the most fervent child of confusion.

At first, she disregarded his insults, in favor of leaning more towards him to speculate which he had to say. Rusalka had been there, before Drageda? And the kru had wished to abscond them of it, regardless. The herbalist frowned at the thought, hackles shivering as she contemplated the boy's words. "It would not settle right, I suppose, from your perspective." Lips pressed thin... then twitched as he went on.

Then again, perhaps she was the fool he scorned her to be. A spineless fool—even as the insult went over her, through her. "There is nothing that blinds me, khīnā. I was not born with ze Drakru. I am not even a part of these Wilds. I was brought into their graces only days prior to war—and you expect me to-to 'grow backbone'?" Suddenly, her muzzle contorted into a flurry that was almost a snarl. "Put yourself in my steps, khīnā, as much as you despise them, and let us see how you would adjust. You are as foolish as I am, to demand such of me, without taking into consideration that I most certainly do not know how to learn! How am I to learn, when ze concept of learning is so foreign to me, even here? I cannot ask for fear of seeming inadequate, and so I become that evermore. Yet, am I not here now, trying to understand you as I will?"

Her voice became a rasp, strained, as she flurried to her paws, quivering with tumult, tears hot and fresh and stinging with the salt of her frustrations. "What would you have me do, then? Become your prisoner?" The thought of him whisking her away as captive had been slow to come; it only crept into her mind now. Why hadn't he tried? Lowering her head warily, eyeing him with impassive aversion, she decided to give voice to it. "Even if you imprision me, what use would it be? Ze Drakru would not come for me; there is nothing for you to torture from me, either," she seethed, brows narrowing at him, morose. "I would not be missed, healer or no. That is most certain."

'You have my pity.'  "You CHILD!"

The words tore from her, shrill and rattling with fury. She whirled up, grounding herself into the moss by her claws, her own scarred features writhing in mania. "You- you boy," she seethed. Aure didn't know if she lashed out because of how he so unforgivably insulted her person... or if it confirmed all the self-deprecating doubts within her. All the same, her mannerisms flew out the window. This whelp wanted to bestow his grievences on her? 

She dared to cast herself towards him, measured and slow, her snowy ruff disheveled like the feathers of a white raven. "Save your pity for yourself, boy. You may know how war is conducted, but you know nothing of the soul." She remained there, holding a stiff-legged stance, eyes bright and glowering. "I suppose I can see why, now, this war may have happened." It doesn't matter who was on the shore first, she amended to herself. What matters is how we all move on from it - coming to an accord or no.

If her mentality with war was the same age as this male was, then could she really blame herself? With those sour thoughts in mind, she promptly turned on her heel and strode from the copse they'd bickered beneath with a vehement, snipping farewell, and did not look back. Left, before she willingly proposed her throat to the jaws of the... enemy.

Aure had never had enemies; had grown up without the concept of them. And it was beneath her to merely assume that all Rusalkans, hostility aside, conducted themselves so adversely. But with the actions of Caphias, and, now, this little wraith... she was beginning to believe they were all one of the same.